Song, A One Shot
by compassrose7577
Summary: Jack wakes up after a night's revelry to several mysteries. He also discovers a few things he would probably not care to know.


**He **felt like a cork, bobbing just below the surface of the day, the victim of a battle, a tug-of-war, between awake and asleep. Sleep was the downward force, warm, inviting somnolence, the sweet promise of oblivion. Awake was the upward, the buoyancy, which offered to take him to the surface, breaking into the day, and all the promise which accompanied.

At the moment, sleep seemed the more probable victor. Intangible, Jack knew there was a reason why he did not want to visit the new day, some premonition of dread. Sweet, soft and warm, sleep drew him to its depths, promising not to release him until he was ready.

Sweet? Soft?

Awake was suddenly winning the battle, rushing him to the surface. Bloody, hell! There it was, dread! Something told him, some little voice, the day should be avoided at all costs, warning him not to take the risk of opening his eyes. There was a precursor, a harbinger--Sweet? Soft?

Where was he? His bunk on the _Black Pearl_ was neither soft, nor sweet. He'd slept on many a beach, but none were like this. Cautiously, he moved his face, imperceptibly—linen, no sheets, and fairly nice. The movement stirred a smell, a scent, something different. Not himself, God knows he knew that one! This was different. Perfume? Yes, that was it, lavender with something else.

A piercing shrillness yanked him the rest of the way into the day, like a bubble popping. No choice for it now, the day had begun.

Slowly, he pried one eye open, cautiously peering out of his protective shell. Bugger! There it was again, a chortling whistle that pierced his head, threatening to split it open. How was is possible for it to feel like the sound was coming out his eye? Desperate to find the source of his torment, he forced both eyes open. Blazing sunlight crashed its way into his head, joining the noise in a ricochet inside his skull. Clapping a hand over his face, he sought to shield himself from the assault.

There was no escaping the attack on his ears. The whistling was back, longer, louder, up and down. God, was there no mercy in this day! Silently mouthing a malicious oath, he cracked one eye open, peering between his fingers, ominously searching. If he could find it, he'd kill it—some how, some way, with something.

The window, just there, was the source of one of his torments, bright morning sunlight pouring through the opening. It offered no answer to where he was. Beyond the window, blue sky and puffy white clouds, no hint there, either. With those two bits of information, he could jolly well be a thousand different places, anywhere on the globe.

Slowly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, gazing balefully around the room. As he suspected, it was a bed, goose-down and soft. And sheets, clean and white, his tanned hands and arms dark against them. Looking a little further, he snatched the sheet up. Where the bloody hell were his clothes? Craning his neck, he surveyed the room. It was nicely furnished, with an Oriental rug on the floor, a small table with a china lamp and a chair with an embroidered pillow in one corner. On the other side of the room sat a sizable chest of drawers and a small dressing table, strewn with all the accoutrement of a female. Yes, this was definitely a woman's room. Lace curtains at the window, a bit of embroidery on the pillow cases and sheets. The quilt alone, pink and blue-flowered, should have been clue enough.

Rubbing his face hard with his hands, he struggled for any shred of memory. His head throbbed like the devil, and his stomach was giving fair warning he should not move too quickly. Rum had never done this to him, it wouldn't dare do it now! It had to have been something else, but what? He resolved to find out. Whatever it was, it was to be avoided at all costs.

Unprepared, the shrieking whistle made him jump, his head and stomach violently objecting to the sudden disruption. His hand flexed wishfully for his pistol as he turned, slowly, toward the window. Small and bright yellow, a bird sat on the windowsill, its head tilting side to side, regarding him curiously with one eye. Satisfied Jack wasn't going to move, quickly at any rate, the bird hopped over to a scattering of crumbs, pecking at several, a wary eye kept at all times. Pausing between bites, the little bird lifted his head and chortled, loud and clear, giving Jack a look of defiance at its completion. A fluttering whir announced the arrival a second bird, duller and browner. Together, they had their breakfast, always watchfully alert.

"Good morning, mate," Jack murmured, quietly. "I see ye brought the little lady."

The sound of his own voice surprised him. Usually gravelly, he sounded like a bucket of stones being drug across the deck. He tried to clear it, making a sound similar to ripping canvas. His stomach sent him a final warning regarding any movement, and he wisely desisted.

He sat with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands for several minutes, willing himself not to flinch every time the birds offered their morning song. Heaving a long, groaning sigh, he pushed himself back, propping himself against the headboard, tucking a pillow as a cushion. Eyes closed, he leaned his head back, listening. Things were beginning to come back, glimpses, slowly. Flashes of pink and soft—and vanilla. He scowled at the quilt. Not that pink; the pink he remembered was, lighter and warmer—and fleshier. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Yes, warm, pink flesh smelling of lavender and vanilla!

Sounds around him were beginning to confirm his suspicions. Heavy boot steps passing outside the door, mixes of male and female laughter, the muffled sound of voices through the wall; it was a whorehouse. One of the nicer ones, apparently, than he had visited, in a long time, but still a whorehouse. A sense of calm and complacency settled over him. His world was melding together. He knew where he was—well, almost. He still didn't know exactly where the whorehouse was, and was already beginning to regret how much he spent, regardless of the sum, but, at the moment, those were trifles.. He'd seen his clothes, folded neatly on the chair—that was alarming-- and his pistol was on the bed stand, barely an arm's length away. Someone would come by, eventually, and tell him the rest.

Proud of himself and his powers of deductive reasoning, he nestled himself more comfortably in the pillows, listening to the building around him. In spite of his stomach's queasy nature, food was becoming of interest, and the prospect of some rum, to wash away the effects of whatever it was he had been drinking the night before, enticed him.

Gradually, he became aware of a familiar sound, rhythmic and ever increasing. Rolling his eyes upward, a sly sideways smile grew across his lips. The sound was coming from upstairs; the all too familiar, business-as-usual whorehouse sounds of a bed taking a bit of a beating. Somehow, in the farthest reaches of his mind, he seemed to recall something similar.

The repetitions overhead were coming faster, more energetically. Then, he heard something—different. Singing, someone was singing? From up there, a deep, bass...

"I know that voice," he murmured, incredulously. "Gibbs?"

There was no mistaking now, the singing became louder, more enthusiastic as the rhythms came faster.

Closing his eyes, Jack shook his head in bewildered dismay. He was now doomed, for the remainder of his days with a mental picture, which he had never wished for, indelibly etched in his mind: Joshamee Gibbs passionately in song.


End file.
